A Bit Sick
by VictorianChik
Summary: Sequel to A Bit Trapped. When Peter gets sick, Neal exacts revenge by taking care of him and repaying Peter for all the previous kindness he has shown to Neal.


AN: When I was writing previous stories, I named the doctor Dr. Hughes, forgetting that that was also the name of the FBI boss. My mistake, and so I've changed the doctor's name to Howards to avoid confusion.

Thanks for reading, and thanks to Fawkes Song for betaing.

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When Peter didn't pick me up at seven-thirty sharp, I started to get worried. He usually comes right on time, sometimes a few minutes early and we have coffee while he admires the view. He occasionally likes to lecture me about enjoying the finer things in life, "Things that are definitely out of your reach," he said, pointing the finger of his empty hand at me. "Never going to be in your reach, and I want you to remember that. And remember I'm always watching you. And," he took a sip of coffee, "I'm not letting you get away with – man, that's good coffee."

"Let me pour you some more," I would offer. "June loves it when visitors enjoy her coffee. Can I interest you in biscotti or scones?"

"No, I already ate. Well, maybe just one of each. Don't get too comfortable here, Neal. You can't expect to live like this all the time. Wow, those scones smell good."

"Try them with some butter," I passed the dish towards him. "It's whipped with honey."

Peter took one bite and groaned in delight. "Oh, oh, man, that's to die for."

I would keep supplying him with food, finding that his lectures usually dissipated when he was eating delicious food and sipping exquisite coffee.

But this morning he hadn't shown up, and I started to get worried. I went downstairs and stood on the sidewalk, looking down the usual direction he comes. No sign of his car. I started pacing, wondering what might be keeping him.

New York traffic was the first reasonable guess, but he would have called if he was running late. He had done that once or twice before and I started walking in his direction so he could pick me up on a main road.

He could be involved in some kind of discussion with Elizabeth, but I knew she was out of town with some of her friends. Maybe the house had a problem, like a broken pipe or bad wiring, and he was waiting on the repairman.

Maybe somebody had broken in last night. Peter was all alone at the house, sound asleep, and some guy broke in, disabled the alarm, and crept up the stairs with a metal crowbar. He found Peter fast asleep, and the robber lifted the crowbar far above his head to bash it down –

My ringing cell phone made me jump the slightest bit, and I fumbled to answer it.

"Neal Caffrey," I said.

"Hey, Caffrey," Jones said from the other end. "Just calling to let you know that Peter's out sick today."

"What?" I blinked.

"Yeah, he called us and left us a message early this morning to say that he had a bad cold, maybe the flu, and he didn't want to subject us to his germs. So he's working at home, and we're catching up on paperwork."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Well," I could almost hear the smirk in Jones's voice, "he said for someone to call you and tell you to stay out of trouble."

"Not funny," I retorted.

"Take care, man."

"You too."

I hung up the phone. And then I grinned as broadly as possible. Oh, this was going to be awesome. Revenge, so sweet and beautiful, presented to me like a present wrapped in gold and tied with silver ribbons studded in jewels.

Peter was sick. Peter was so sick he couldn't go to work, which meant he couldn't brush off his own ill health. And he was alone – Elizabeth couldn't save him now.

I started walking in the direction of his house.

It had been over a week since we all went to the movies and my getting sick was even before that, but had I forgotten the misery he subjected me to while I was laying weak and helpless? I don't forget anything. And now it was time to repay Peter for every bit of kindness he had shown me, to match my actions against his, mercy for mercy. The doctor's visit, the shot, the medicine, the naps, the water (oh, I was going to drown him!), and all the verbal bullying I had suffered.

It took me about forty minutes to walk to his house, but the whole way there, I kept planning what I would do to him. I hadn't felt this happy in a while and it was almost the same euphoria I get when I'm planning a crime that I know will be brilliant.

When I finally reached Peter's house, I lightly tripped up the stairs and pulled out the key I had fashioned that would unlock his front door. When I went inside, I found Peter on the sofa, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He looked worn down and pale, definitely sick with something.

"Neal?" he looked up at me, his voice hoarse and congested. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Peter," I shook my head. "Peter, Peter, Peter, they told me you were under the weather. Not feeling so hot, are we?"

"Just a bad cold," he reached for the box of tissues. "I didn't want to sneeze and cough over everyone at work. Why are you here? I thought you'd like a day off work."

I grinned wolfishly. "Oh, no, Peter, I'm here to take of you."

He waved me away with a tired hand. "Don't worry, I'm fine. A day of rest should heal me up."

I came in front of him, kneeling until we were on the same level. "Peter," I tilted my head an inch to the side, "do you really think I'm going to leave you alone after the way you treated me when I was sick? You really think I'm not going to take care of you just as thoroughly?"

"What do you mean?" he gave me a questioning look. "Why would you want to stick around here?"

"'Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind / And makes it fearful and degenerate / Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep'," I said.

"If you're going to start quoting Shakespeare, you can go home," he leaned back against the sofa.

"No, no, the first order of business is to take you to the doctor," I stood up straight. "Where's your coat?"

"Oh, come on, I don't need a doctor. He can't do anything for a cold."

"Now, Peter," I went to grab his coat, "you don't have a medical degree so you don't know what the doctor might say. I'm going to see that you go there and get examined and do whatever he says to do to feel better. Don't make me force you to get in the car."

He snorted. "As if you could. I don't want to drive all the way over to the doctor. Can't you go to the store and get me some DayQuil or something like that?"

"So, when I'm sick, I get dragged to the doctor, and when you're sick, we get DayQuil?"

Peter made a tired face. "You're not going to let me be, are you?"

I crossed my arms.

"Okay, okay, doctor," he agreed. He pulled himself to his feet, and I held out his coat to slip on. I put my hand out.

"I'm driving."

"You can't drive my car," he frowned.

"You're in no shape to drive. You let me drive or we take a taxi."

"We're not spending money on a taxi."

"Well, then?"

He shuffled down deep into his pocket and pulled out his keys. "You better be a good driver."

"I am."

"And won't go too fast this time?"

"I'll creep along."

I got him out of the house and down the stairs, and I held the door open for him. Once he got inside, I closed the door and hurried to the driver side. Swinging into the car, I put the keys in the ignition.

"Seatbelt?" I asked him

"Already on."

"Mirrors aligned?" I glanced in the rearview mirror and both side mirrors. "Check. Door securely closed and locked? Check. Seat properly adjusted?"

"Neal!" Peter looked at me.

"Peter, your health is very important to me," I said. "I'm just ensuring that I don't put you in further danger."

He glared at me, but it was partly indulgent. "Would you just drive?"

I pulled out onto the road and drove smoothly, keeping my speed at least one mile under the speed limit. "So, why do you think you got sick?" I asked amiably.

"I probably caught it from someone at work. It's probably viral which makes this whole trip unnecessary."

"Oh, Peter," I smirked. "You really think you're getting out of this visit that easily?"

"No, but I think you're worrying too much. Colds are colds – you can't do anything for them. Sinus infections are bacterial which means you can treat them. Colds usually go away by themselves while sinus infections need to be treated."

"We'll see what the doctor says," I replied smugly.

Peter shook his head again and leaned back against the headrest.

When we got to the parking lot, Peter didn't protest going in, and he even went right up to the reception desk.

"Hi, I'm Peter Burke with the FBI," he told the receptionist. "My consultant here thinks I need to see the doctor."

I leaned past Peter. "Right away, too. He's very sick."

"Have a seat," the woman smiled as if amused. "We'll see if we can squeeze you in."

"Don't you have to fill out a chart?" I asked as Peter and I sat in a pair of chairs near the door.

"No, I've been here before. Why don't you find a good magazine to read? I might be a while."

"I'm coming back with you," I insisted.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Neal, you're not going to –"

"You went back with me."

Peter sighed. "That was different. I was worried you might bolt."

"You could try to bolt."

"Not likely. You still have the keys to my car. Come on, Neal – just relax."

"I'm going back with you," I said with finality.

He rolled his eyes and then sneezed into a tissue twice. "Fine, fine, whatever it takes to calm you down."

A nurse came out soon and called for Peter. She raised her eyebrows when I followed him back, but she directed me to sit on a chair in the room while she went to weigh Peter. When they came back, he sat up on the padded, papered table and waited as the nurse scribbled on his chart.

"How much do you weigh?" I asked.

"More than I'd like to," he grumbled. "At my age, the pounds just flow on."

He held out his arm and the nurse strapped the blood pressure sleeve on him.

Watching Peter get his vitals taken was not nearly as rewarding as I hoped it would be. Instead of acting all nervous and jumpy like he should have been with so many torture devices, he seemed oddly apathetic as she probed him and wrote on the chart. I had been hoping he would refuse at one point and I would have to reprimand him and maybe even stand up to assist the nurse if necessary.

I didn't want Peter to be in pain, but a little reluctance would have been nice. Was it too much to ask that he be as anxious about medical treatment as I was? He didn't even pull away when she clicked the machine in his ear to check his temperature.

"Doctor will be in soon," she promised before leaving.

Peter glanced around the room, looking bored.

"Oh, oh, I get what this is," I realized. "I see what you're doing."

Peter looked at me, feigning exhaustion. "What am I doing now?"

"You're acting all tough and uncaring just to show me up. Well, it won't work, Peter. You can't con a conman."

"I'm conning you?" he repeated.

"I'm onto you," I smirked. "I see right through your little game."

"Ugh," Peter lowered his head. "Maybe we should have _your_ head examined. Apparently, there's a fine line between brilliancy and insanity."

"And that line is pretending not to care when the doctor is about to cause you immeasurable pain."

"Caffrey, am I going to have to beat some sense into you? No one is causing anyone pain. I'm sick, and you dragged me here so you need to be quiet before you're the one in pain."

I scowled, but the doctor came in at that moment, Peter's chart in his hand.

"Uh, Burke, good to see you again," Dr. Howards nodded. He went over to the sink to wash and dry his hands, talking as he did so. "I see you're a little under the weather. Your young partner getting you sick?"

"Not really," Peter smiled.

I stood up as the doctor turned around. "He was sick enough to stay home from work, and he's never that sick. Maybe it's something bad. He says a cold, but it could be the swine flu or something even worse."

"Ah, well, we'll have to see," Howards smiled at me, condescendingly. "Why don't you have a seat and I'll look over your partner?"

"He might deny being sick, too," I added.

"Neal, sit down," Peter ordered. "Sorry, doc, he doesn't like anything medical."

"A little nervous, huh?" Howards laughed. "It's perfectly fine – many people have medical phobia."

"The term is Iatrophobia, and I don't have it," I bristled.

"Shh," Peter said as Howards took out his stethoscope and started listening to his heart.

The doctor went on to do strange, horrid things like tapping on Peter's knees to get his reflexes to kick and tapping around his neck and under his eyes. It was kind of a weird sensation, watching Peter get maneuvered under the doctor's knowing hands. I mean, I know Peter's human and all that, but sometimes he comes off as being a little superhuman and larger than life, what with his work in the FBI and being a leader and keeping track of so many cases and seeming to know what I've done without anyone telling him. It was almost disillusioning to realize that he was just a man like the rest of us.

"It just looks like a bad cold," Howards finally said. "But I could do a little blood work if that would rest your mind."

"That won't be necessary," Peter assured him. "I knew it was only a cold."

"Now, Peter," I spoke up, "shouldn't we let the doctor decide that?"

The two of them shared a look in which they must have shared information telepathically because Howards gave a chuckle and said,

"All right, I'm not doing blood work, but I'm going to prescribe several decongestants and antihistamines. I'm also going to insist on a nasal spray, hot showers, and plenty of rest for twenty-four hours. Drink lots of fluids and let your wife take good care of you."

"She's out of town," I objected. "Peter's all alone, except for me."

"Then you, young sir, are in charge of making sure Agent Burke makes a full recovery," the doctor decided.

He was obviously patronizing me, but the joke was on him because he had just informed Peter that I was in charge.

Half an hour later, we were in the car (I was driving again) and headed towards the pharmacy.

"Let me drop you off at home first and then I can go get the stuff," I told Peter.

"No," he had his head back again, eyes closed. "You can't drive my car without me in it. You can go into the store and get what I need. You can use my credit card."

"Really?" I was mildly surprised.

"If I see any additional purchases on it, I will take a belt to your sorry behind."

I drew myself up indignantly. "I'm hurt, Peter. I would never do something like that. And you can stop making such barbaric threats against my person."

"Whatever keeps you in line," he still did not open his eyes.

I left him in the car with the heat running and I made short work of getting the medicine he needed, careful to choose the cheapest items possible and going for generic rather than name brand. I also got him a few hot patches, knowing that heat would help achy bones and sore muscles. And I bought a gallon of water, planning to fill it up several times over the course of the day.

When I got back to the car, I handed him the bag of stuff, the receipt, and the credit card.

"You sure you didn't get anything else?" he asked suspiciously.

"What is in a CVS pharmacy that I can't afford on my own?" I asked him. "I get a little money, enough to have a credit card. And when I steal things, I steal big things, not an eight-dollar pack of batteries."

"All right, sorry," Peter put his hands up. "I'll give the benefit of the doubt."

I got him home and inside, and then I started on my evil plan again.

"Okay," I shut and locked the door. "Take the medicine and then you can go upstairs and sleep."

"I'll just camp on the sofa and watch TV," Peter opted.

He took a step towards the sofa, but I grabbed his arm, trying to steer him towards the stairs. He looked at me, glanced down at my hands on his arm, and then back up at my face.

"You want to explain why you're grabbing me?" he wore his agent face: no-nonsense and to the point.

"I'm heading you upstairs. And you grab me all the time."

"That is a different matter, and you know it."

"It is not, and I don't. Dr. Howards said I'm in charge and I have to take care of you."

"Oh, fine," Peter gave in. "I'll go upstairs and sleep. But I don't like the idea of you roaming my house while I'm asleep."

"What do I want to steal from here?" I took my arms off him, but I hovered close, just in case he tried to escape.

"We have nice things that someone would want to steal," Peter said as we climbed the stairs, me carrying the bags from the pharmacy. "Maybe not your class of thief, but an average robber would think they're nice. El decorated it, and she did a good job."

"She did a very good job," I assured him. "But I'm not going to steal anything. Do you want to take a bath first?"

"I'll do that later," he went into his bedroom.

"Sit on the bed and I'll give you your medicine," I told him as I put the bag at the end of the bed.

I swear I saw him smile for a moment, but when I looked closely, his face was expressionless.

"All right," he sat down, "I'm ready."

I took out all the stuff one by one and started breaking open boxes.

"Oh, you got pills for me," Peter remarked. "How thoughtful."

"I couldn't find the stuff he prescribed in liquid form," I admitted. "But you're going to drink this whole gallon of water."

"All at once? How am I going to sleep if I drink all that water?"

"You made me drink all the water."

"After your nap." His eyes were dancing, and I swear he was laughing at me, but I would not be deterred.

"You need water and medicine and rest, and I'm going to see that you get them. So are you going to argue with me or are you going to cooperate?"

"I was just kidding," Peter assured me. "You're a good nurse, Neal. Now which should I take first?"

After he took one pill from each box and drank a lot of water, I pulled the curtains over the window to darken the room and waited for him to settle into bed.

"Are you cold? Where's an extra blanket?" I glanced around.

"No, the bed is plenty warm. Well, see you in a few hours," Peter lay back against the pillow and relaxed, exhaling a deep breath.

"Okay," I nodded, "I'll be downstairs."

I went out, shutting his door. I went downstairs and found Satchmo and we played for a few minutes. I thought about taking him for a walk, but I wanted to make sure Peter was asleep first and didn't need me. I tiptoed back up the stairs and silently opened the door.

He was in bed, but the side lamp was on and he was reading a book.

"Peter!" I exclaimed.

He looked up, suddenly guilty.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," I told him.

"I was about to," he said. "I just wanted to read for a little while."

I marched over to the bed and thrust out my hand. "Give me the book."

He handed it over with obvious reluctance. "You're a strict nurse."

"You need sleep – the doctor said so."

"No, the doctor said I needed rest. They aren't the same thing."

"Should I call him and ask?" I refused to back down.

"Oh, all right,' Peter sank back on the pillow. "I'll sleep."

He coughed for a few seconds and gave me a sad look.

"If you sleep now, I'll let you up later to watch TV," I decided. He needed a little encouragement to lift his spirits. "But only for an hour. But you have to sleep now or no TV. And I'm calling Elizabeth if you don't behave."

"Okay, okay," he agreed. "I'll nap so I can watch TV later."

"I'm going to be sitting outside the door in case you decide to sneak around again," I warned. I thought I saw a hint of smile on his lips again, but he obediently closed his eyes.

Satchmo tried to climb up on the bed, but I caught his collar. "No, you're outside with me. This unruly patient needs to rest."

I thought I heard a chuckle, but when I whirled around, Peter was laying still, his eyes closed and his face relaxed.

I took the dog out into the hallway, and we sat on the floor beside the cracked door. I watched for any sign of light or sound of movement, but Peter must have heeded my warning because all was quiet inside the bedroom. After about thirty minutes, I was certain he was sound asleep, just like he should be, so I took the dog downstairs to leash up for a walk.

It would be a short walk because I planned to make sure Peter was following the doctor's orders for the rest of the day.


End file.
